Wait For It
by Cero de Grenada
Summary: What thoughts does a drunken man have? Most would tell you none. At least, no coherent thoughts. Zhou Cheng would slur otherwise to anyone that cared to listen.
1. Lying in Wait

What thoughts does a drunken man have?

Most would tell you none. At least, no coherent thoughts.

Zhou Cheng would slur otherwise. But that would also mean leaving his comfortable doorway. He remembers a show he watched when he was little, and there was a kid named Stoop Boy who never left his stoop. The characters spent the entire show trying to get Stoop Boy to leave his stoop and go and play.

Zhou's never left the Hand since his master bit the dust. Most days he sits in the doorway, drinking, waiting for something to happen to him. Staying loyal, he tells himself. He's staying loyal to his master's orders.

 _You have far too much power. You must drink to control that power, Zhou. Otherwise it will control you and take you down a path you cannot return from. Do not trust that path._

The dragon inside of him rumbles.

Some stray kids wander his way. They tug on his sleeve. He slurs some joke, makes them giggle. They tug at his arm again, but he stays put and waves them away. They jump around and pretend to be ninjas in the concrete yard in front of his doorway. It looks like fun, like when he was little. But he's not moving. He's waiting. His time will come.

With every passing day, he drinks a little more.

"My liver's going to die at this rate," he mumbles to himself.

A brown mouse pauses and stares at him with wide eyes. "Think I was dead? Sorry to disappoint."

It squeaks and scurries away.

No one expects anything important of mice. They got silent paws, stick to the shadows…

Even Madame Gao looks disgusted with him, and he knows the old bat has seen far too many things to be considered sane. What must he look like? His master would be proud.

He despises the Iron Fist the moment his eyes fall upon the boy.

White American boy, billionaire, with no loyalty to the very people that helped him achieve his power, just another man who thinks he can get to the top and stomp on everyone else once he's there.

Zhou would never do that.

He wishes he had the power of the Iron Fist.

Maybe that thought alone makes him disloyal. A traitor. Undeserving of Danny Rand's title. As undeserving as Danny Rand is. Zhou meets Danny's challenge. He stands on unsteady feet and mocks the boy—he leaves his stoop.

The dragon rumbles. It glares at him from the dark, eyes bright green and accusing. Zhou pours baijiu over it. A screech echoes and the eyes vanish. Calm. Yes. Focus on fighting Danny Rand. Kick, block, flip—lying down now. Okay. The ground feels nice.

Stomp, stomp—dodge.

Oh, Danny Rand is _pissed_.

Zhou wishes he could remember what he said to piss off the boy, what he said to end up with a bloody nose, but too soon and too suddenly darkness engulfs him. And oh, does the unconsciousness feel good.

* * *

He pulls through the fight. He wakes to someone throwing freezing water over him.

"What the hell?" he yelps, bolting upright. Oh—why did he do that? The entire world spins and he holds his head.

"Up and at 'em, drunk boy. The Hand skedaddled while you were passed out," a woman's voice informs him.

"Who're you?" he mumbles, eyes screwed shut. Lightning splits his head.

"The name's Az. What's your name, again?"

"Zhou Cheng," he answers, and he thinks about finishing his title, but if the Hand left him, that means he's on his own. He failed them. No need for titles anymore. No one wanted him after his parents died—why would the Hand want some dirty, drunk, worthless orphan that couldn't even defend a doorway?

He manages to glimpse the woman standing in front of him before the light becomes too much and he shuts his eyes again. Tall, white, scars slashing across her face, loose sweatshirt, dark jeans, short and wild hair. Odd. And is that an accent in her voice?

"Here," she says, tapping the side of his head with a plastic bottle. Zhou blinks at it. "I don't know how you fight drunk like that. How's your liver doing?"

"What is this?"

"Water. Need something else?"

She dangles one of his bottles in front of him. He snatches it and greedily gulps. The anger and pain in his chest subsides, the swirling, thrashing dragon calming. His head relaxes its death grip on his brain.

"What is that?" she asks.

"Baijiu." He pauses, placing her accent. "You're Russian? You'd like it. It's basically vodka."

She swipes the bottle and takes a swig. "Ooh. Not bad. Yes, I'm part Russian. And you?"

"Unimportant."

She scoffs and hands him the bottle. "Am I wasting my time?" she asks, tilting her head and fixing him with a hard stare.

It makes his skin grow hot and uncomfortable. He drinks again. "Depends," he replies, wiping his mouth. "What are you spending your time on?"

"Your worthless sense of self. You're giving up and you haven't even started."

"Given up on what? The doorway?" He leans back on his elbows. "I failed my mission to protect the Hand. I don't see the point in continuing it if the Hand is gone. They obviously don't want me."

She shakes her head and stands. "Good-bye, Zhou."

"Wait, wait," he calls. He rubs his eyes. "Let me get my head straight." Taking a deep breath, he shoves himself to his feet. The world spins for a moment. It settles, centering on her. "Alright, alright."

Her eyes flick over him. "Alright. Let's go."

"Where to?"

She jerks her head in a vague direction. He runs a hand through his hair and follows her out of the Hand building and onto the streets. They weave through the alleys. She makes a turn, and suddenly Zhou doesn't recognize the bricks here, the white, windowless buildings scarred with cracks. The temperature drops. He shivers. She says, "Iron Fist is a power from Heaven, right? You need some help from Hell."

Zhou perks up. "Hell? Paradise Lost, Dante's Inferno Hell?"

Her eyes light up. "Mm, more like the ninth layer of Dante's Inferno. You ever heard of Niflheim?" she asks, turning and walking backwards, ginning lopsidedly. Unlike Zhou, she seems completely unbothered by the cold. His eyes flicker to the logo on her t-shirt. A white hand.

"Are you from the Hand?"

She glances down and chuckles. "No—it's the White Hand of Sarumon from The Lord of the Rings."

"I only read The Hobbit."

Snow hits his face. Wait—snow?

He glances up. The sky swirls with thick, gray clouds and sheets of snow. No more bricks—stone towers all around, black peeking beneath the layers of snow and ice. "Woah…" He stumbles.

She grabs his shoulders and steadies him. His bottle swings from his wrist, tied there by a red string. "Careful," she says with a laugh. "There's a cliff to your left."

He looks to his left. Yup. "When did that get there?"

"How drunk are you?"

He takes another swig from his bottle. "This is Hell?"

"This is Niflheim, the coldest region from Norse Mythology. Hey, eyes up." He drags his eyes from the cliffs and the infinite abyss to her. "You cold?"

"Y-yeah," he says through chattering teeth.

She unzips her sweatshirt and gives it to him. He gratefully puts it on. It smells nice, like freshly dried laundry, and it has that pleasant warmth, too. Nonetheless, he shivers. "I'm a pussy."

"A little bit, yeah." She shivers, too. "But it's still too damn cold to dally 'round. Hurry up." She tugs on his hand and he stumbles along after her. He wonders if this isn't some dream and he's still unconscious on the floor. After all, there's an abyss next to his left—it feels straight like its straight out of Milton. He half expects to see Satan walking ahead of them, ready to sweep into Eden and tempt Eve.

Az halts outside a tiny stone door. An engraved serpent winds its way up and down the door. "What is it?"

"Jormungandr."

"Mouthful."

She pushes the door open to reveal…shadows. Yep, he's seen shady doors like this before. "After you," she tells him. "Go to the left."

Zhou steps inside. So warm. He folds his arms over his chest and revels in the warmth, stomping the snow from his shoes. It melts in a puddle. She steps over the puddle and shakes the snow from her hair.

"Why's your hair so short?" he asks. He rakes his eyes over her body, resting a bit too long on her ass. She gestures upwards with her hand. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Drunk, you know."

"No excuse. But I do have to say, you have a nice ass yourself," she says. He chuckles. "And the hair is just preference. Doesn't get in the way during a fight."

"Where'd you get the scars?"

She points at the shadowy hall. "Keep walking. It's a narrow passage, so I'll go behind you."

Zhou hesitates. "I can't see."

"Trust the path."

He takes a breath and starts forward. Trust the path. Each footfall finds solid ground. Az keeps her word and walks behind him, close enough that he can feel her breath on his neck. When he tries to stop she nudges him forward. The walls seem to close in, like the cold stones of a grave.

"Where—,"

She shushes him. He presses his lips together. Warm air touches his front. The cold seeps away, leaving him sweating in the woman's sweatshirt. His mind clears—the alcohol leaves his system almost as fast as the heat came upon them. In that moment of new clarity, he turns and faces the woman.

"What's your full name?" he demands.

"Az Lokiovna." She unzips the sweatshirt for him, fingers tracing down his chest along with the zipper. "You know the dragon inside of you? This was his home. Madame Gao killed him and gave his power to you. And what do you do? Pour baijuice or whatever the hell it is all over him." She takes a step back and falls into a fighting position.

 _The power will engulf you._

"It's disrespectful," she continues. "You have this great gift and you treat it like a disease. And then you have the audacity to wonder why you could never be the Iron Fist."

"Shut up!" he snaps, lunging forward.

The dragon erupts. It sinks its claws into his brain and shuts all other thought down. Fire rises in his chest and pumps him forward. Flames blind his eyes.

Az evades. She darts and ducks, rolling and worrying him with short, quick jabs. Annoying, really. The flames subside enough to let Zhou see and think, but all Zhou thinks is _wolf_. Dragon versus wolf. Flames lick at the edge of his vision.

He shakes his head. "Let go!" he snaps at the dragon. "I got this!"

One claw lets go. The dragon snarls. Damn the Hand, putting this wretched, disobedient dragon in him. He cracks his fist over its horned head. It does nothing but surprise the dragon. " _Let go_." The other claw vanishes. Zhou wins. His eyes clear—and where'd she go?

Az grabs him from behind and spins him around. She punches him in the jaw once, twice, a third punch to his gut.

He collapses. His head spins and his jaw feels like it might just fall off.

Black.


	2. I am the one thing in life I can control

Soft… and wet. Euegh—that's drool. Definitely drool.

Zhou glares at the offending puddle and rolls over, surveying the room.

Ragged stone walls surround him, and a single torch lights the room. A heavy white blanket rests atop him. He bounces experimentally. Yes, a cot. A quick look to his left and he finds an apple, bread, cheese, and a glass of water on a bedside…rock. A bedrock?

"Afternoon, Zhou," someone greets. Someone familiar.

"Az," he hoarsely returns. His mouth feels fuzzy and thick.

She strides into the small, dim room and shows him a little, round white pill between her fingers. "It's what's keeping your from jaw from swelling. Where do you want it?"

"Bedrock."

She pauses and looks at the floor. "Is this bedrock?" she murmurs to herself.

"No—here," he mumbles, gesturing to the bedside rock.

"Oh." She sets the pill there and fixes him with a concerned gaze. "You alright to eat and drink?"

He gingerly touches his jaw. "Mmhmm. Yeah." It feels like someone shoved a golf ball in his mouth.

She smiles and sits, stretching her legs out and leaning against the wall. New t-shirt, he notes. It has "Foo Fighters" written on the front in a white font, rather than a white hand on black fabric. Apparently she only knows how to wear two colors.

Zhou sits up and takes the pill with water, spilling some down his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve, and he realizes he still has her sweatshirt on. "You—?" he asks, gesturing at the sweatshirt.

"Nah. You look cold."

He smiles crookedly. Concentrating, he carefully forms the words, "Is it just you here?"

She shrugs. "I'm the only one you see. The masters here are… tentative, to be seen by humans." He opens his mouth to ask more, but she just shakes her head. "I've never seen them," she explains. "They just leave notes and supplies around. This room is yours until you're ready to leave."

"When will that be?"

"When you have the dragon under control."

"I do."

"Not judging by that jaw of yours. Or the sizeable bruise on your stomach."

He waits a beat. "I've had worse."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't you Monty Python me."

He rubs his eyes. They feel sticky, like something's pulling them shut. "What's the pill?"

"You'll probably crash in a couple minutes here. I'll be here when you get up."

He nods and settles back down, eyes fighting to stay open for that long. The last thing he thinks of is the smell of freshly dried laundry and tiny undertone of apples.

He wakes the next day, jaw recovered, and sure enough, there sits Az. Asleep, but still there. It makes a little butterfly whirl in his stomach. How could it not? Ignored by the very organization he's supposed to defend for years, looked at with scorn and pity, and here sits a woman waiting while he recovers.

God, he needs a drink. Stop those thoughts there. Those thoughts go too far and they mean trouble. Don't go putting hope in people that don't care, he reminds himself. You're not good for anything or anyone in this world.

She stirs. He swings his feet over the side of the bed and bites into an apple.

"Keep sleeping," he says. "You're nice to watch."

She unfurls and wipes her eyes. "Uh… thanks. How long you been up? How's the jaw?"

"About a minute, and it's fine." He touches it. No pain. "Yeah. It's great."

"Eat and drink, then. Meet me out where we fought. I have something to show you."

Once he's done eating, Zhou gazes at the passage. He wants to get out of here. Running his hand through his hair, he stands and walks out. Unlike the other passage, torches line the hall and chase away most shadows. A bat flutters out of the wall and Zhou smiles—if only it were blue like a zubat. This feels like some calm adventure to him, like the slow pace of Red Version. You move when you want, and there's no such thing as moving late.

The passage opens up much like the other one did, and would you look at that? Flames again. He steps into the ring. The room shifts. He keeps walking. Rocks move and the flames fly upwards to form a sun-like lamp above. Something moves. Zhou halts and stares with wide eyes at the sight before him.

A long, black, sleek, _enourmous_ dragon stares at him with glittering emerald eyes. It snarls softly, exposing its pearly teeth. "You silence me," it rumbles.

"You don't listen to me," Zhou replies. He stands straighter and stares the dragon in the eyes, even as it starts to slither around the room, more like a basilisk than a dragon. It fills the room until it becomes the walls surrounding Zhou. He licks his lips and lifts his chin in defiance.

"You're weak, boy," the dragon rumbles. "You fight and fight, but every single time you step on the cusp of greatness, you fall backwards. You claim someone pushes you, but no one else is there."

Zhou glares at the dragon. It faces him, emerald eyes glittering. "Name a time," Zhou challenges.

"Iron Fist," the dragon hisses. "You and I both know you could have beat him. But you were drunk. You ensnared yourself."

"I drink to control my strength. To control you."

"Because we accidentally killed someone once? My poor boy," the dragon mocks.

"A warrior does not kill unless necessary."

"Your master wanted to kill you. He knew I was within you. He knew he could have my power if he killed you, so I struck first."

"That's not true!" Zhou shouts.

"He is the one that ordered you to drink!" the dragon bellows. The rocks above shake, and little pebbles clatter to the ground. "He set you up for death! He lied—he told you only drink could control the dragon, so he could murder you when you were passed out on the sidewalk."

Images of his master, so kind, taking in the lost little boy and training him to be a warrior. Taking him out for drinks. Teaching him to fight every drunken night.

 _You have powers the world is not ready for, so you must drink to control them. Otherwise they will take you over in a fiery rage. Your dragon will kill anyone that gets in its way of power. It is a blood-thirsty monster, Zhou. It will control you if you give it the opportunity._

"Lies!" the dragon roars, as if it can see Zhou's memories and thoughts. "How can you not see the lies when they stare you in the face?"

"You are the lying serpent!" Zhou shouts back.

"Your mind is filled with stories! I am not Satan! I am _not_ tempting you! I was gifted to you because you are worthy of my power. I will give it to you if you only _let_ me."

"I know you're not Satan," Zhou says.

"That is what you're focused on?"

"You're a vehicle for death and destruction."

The dragon roars in frustration. Zhou folds his arms and closes his eyes. The roar fades. He opens his eyes and finds himself in the stone fighting ring, just him and Az. Az narrows her eyes. Her hands ball into fists.

Zhou stares back at her, defiant. She can be as angry as she wants, but he refuses to break the oath he made to his master.

She stands and points to the passage that leads to his room. "Your room's that way. Hang a left and you'll find the kitchen, to the right's the bathroom." And she walks away, silent.

Zhou knows she's disappointed. But she shouldn't expect anything different.

He finds his way to the kitchens. Empty.

He'll show her. In the cupboard, he finds three bottles. When he cracks one open the smell of alcohol almost bowls him over. Perfect. It slides down his throat, the burning sensation like home.

Az taps a message on her phone and sends it. A simple "Understood" answers her. She slips her phone into her pocket and blows out a breath, staring at the abyss on the other side of the fighting ring. Sometimes wind comes from the abyss, carrying the wild and cold smells of the Niflheim winter. It fills her with a tireless energy—she wishes she could run there instead of waiting around in this cave, instead of pacing in cities on earth. The hellhound in her growls in agreement.

She remembers when she first achieved the power of the hellhound, much like Iron Fist achieved the power of the dragon in K'un L'un. Her mother, a Frost Giant, brought her to Niflheim from Moscow where she was born when Az was eighteen. She learned how to fight from her mother. All her mother wanted to see was the power of the hellhound go to her own daughter rather than some hellish king.

So Az took the challenge two years later after rigorous training, after the Frost King Laufey had died at the hands of Thor and Loki. Az won. The hellhound, a giant, frost-clad hound with glowing red eyes, fought tooth and nail. It raked its claws down Az's face. Az tore out its throat with a ragged dagger. Immediately, power had filled her, like a raging fire, and the hellhound's voice whispered in her head:

 _Destroy the Hand._

Footsteps tear her attention back to the present. Unsteady footsteps. She turns and watches Zhou walk, reeking of alcohol.

"I want a rematch, Az. I'm ready this time," he calls.

She lifts a brow and looks him over, eyes lingering longer than they should on his ass and chest. They flicker to face, then to the bottle hanging from his wrist. " _Are_ you ready this time?"

"I have the dragon under control," he answers, eyes roaming her body. His brain fuzzes and his mind wanders to an imagined conversation—he never had to take an oath of chastity. It could become a real conversation…

"You're drowning the dragon again," she states, pulling him from his thoughts.

Zhou steps forward before he forces himself to halt—no, he will not be that sort of a drunkard. He chooses to focus on his challenge instead, like he came here to do. "This is the only way we work together."

Az frowns and stands from the stone ledge. "We don't leave this place until you find another way. You don't have to drown him to keep him in line," she tells him, frustration slipping into her voice.

Zhou blinks in surprise. "You…" It's on the tip of his tongue, _you actually think I can be something,_ but he doesn't dare say it aloud. Her faith may well just vanish if he does. He'll prove her right—he can be something. But it'll be on his own terms, not hers.

She draws closer. He gazes at her, eyes softening, hand reaching out to settle on her waist. She presses herself against him and that smell of laundry and apples wreathes around him. Her hand slips into his. He arches toward her, his arm snaking around her back. His eyes trace the scars raking down her face, reminiscent of an animal mauling. If he could just drag his lips down those scars… "You don't need to subjugate the dragon." And she rips the bottle from his wrist and smashes it on the stone.

The dragon lifts its head. Zhou sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh, love. You don't know what you've done," he manages, smiling humorlessly.

"No, I think I do. Let the dragon out, Zhou."

And oh, he does.

He shouts and attacks.

Her eyes light up and she springs backwards. "I'm not holding back!" he snaps.

"Neither will I."

He stumbles forward and throws himself into a somersault kick. His heel just catches her shoulder. She jerks forward and uses her momentum to grab his leg and flip, taking him with her.

"Oof!" Zhou finds himself splayed across the ground, head spinning. Footsteps.

He tumbles backwards and lands on his feet, crouching. She stands where he had been, hands balled into fists, grinning. "You're fast," he compliments.

She kicks. He ducks. She brings her elbow down. He brings his palm up. Once her elbow meets his palm he grabs, pulls her forward, and throws them both to the ground. They roll over the flat stone.

Az wriggles free and springs back. She scowls, reminiscent of a wolf.

He jumps to his feet and balances unsteadily on one foot. Center your chi, he reminds himself. The dragon gets to its feet and opens its jaws. Fire pools in his chest.

With a shout, he runs, spins, and kicks. Az dodges, but another foot comes to meet her. She blocks with her forearm, but he shifts and spins, repeating the same kicks. _My wings are a hurricane!_ he thinks.

Az ducks and rolls. Zhou lands on both feet, tipping precariously forward. Oops—he falls forward and rolls. She leaps over him. He unfurls and jumps to his feet.

"On your back!" she growls, swiping her foot low. He falls, catches himself with his hands, and pushes himself back to his feet. Woah—the edge of the ring. The abyss yawns behind him. He lifts his hands to yield, but her eyes are wild like fire and don't register the danger.

She kicks him in the chest.

His breath flies out of him and he falls back. Right over the cliff.

The world stills and clears. Gravity wraps its hands around him. The dragon tries to flap its wings.

"NO!"

She rushes forward, grabs a pillar with one hand and seizes his shirt collar with the other, both of them hovering over the abyss. He slaps his hands on her arm and holds tight. With a grunt she yanks him back. He pulls him with her and they collapse back in the fighting ring, him lying on top of her. "Holy shit," he breathes. "You win."

"My heart's in my mouth and my stomach in my throat," she growls, arms tightening around him.

He laughs and buries his face in her neck. "Is this how I can get you to hold me?"

"You could just ask," she laughs breathlessly, mouth brushing his ear. She pushes against his chest. "Get off, you drunk lug."

He scrambles off her and sits on the stone floor for a few moments, trying to wrap his head around that brief moment of weightlessness. Az stands and holds her hand to him. "C'mon. Don't think about it too long."

He takes it and she pulls him to his feet, only for him to trip into her. "Whoops."

"Yeah, sure," she scoffs.

He sets his hands on her shoulders and steadies himself. "You saved my life," he softly murmurs.

"In payment of that debt, you go sober," she orders. He frowns. "You lost," she reminds him.

"Not because of the drinking," he says. "You're a good fighter. Plus, we had no terms for the fight."

She hooks her fingers in his belt loops. He swallows hard and sets his hands on her waist. "Not as good as you could be."

"Why do you think that?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm nothing—what makes you think I'm worth anything? I'm just a drunk man with no hope and nowhere to go. You're wasting your time."

She shakes her head and steps away, eyes fixed on the ground. The air feels colder. "The passage back is open. Just… go home. All you want to be is mediocre, _thinking_ you could be better but never wanting to try."

"Because I lost? You're a warrior from Hell! How am I supposed to beat you?"

"Then how did you ever even think you could beat the Iron Fist?"

"I never thought—,"

"You don't deserve any titles. Go home and drink yourself to death," she snaps. "You're right, I've wasted my time with you. You're a drunkard and apparently a liar, too. I don't know what I saw in you—definitely not a dragon."

Zhou scowls and storms out. The passage waits, a hungry maw, ready to devour him, swallow him into the stone. He glances back. Az faces away, phone out, fingers tapping away.

He plunges into the shadows. The warmth tickles his neck as it leaves, calling him back. Shivering, he zips his sweatshirt up to his neck and throws up the hood. Oh. Her sweatshirt. Zhou halts. He presses his palm against the freezing stone. A heavy sigh escapes him and he glances back at the shadows, the faint light from the fighting ring flickering deep within.

"I can try," he mutters, glaring at the ground. There will always be alcohol, he thinks with a wry smile. He can always go back. When he looks back up at the passage, snow swirls at the end and a stray flake whisks through the air to melt on his face.

Shoving his hands in his pocket, he turns and walks back into the warmth. He's never really liked winter.

Az watches him with guarded eyes. He touches his knees to the ground. "I'm sorry. Just one more chance. Please."

She pulls her knife out and tosses it to him, handle first. "Make an oath," she orders.

Zhou flips the knife in his hand and drags it across his palm. He holds his palm out and lets the blood drip onto the floor, but he says nothing. Their eyes meet. She smiles and nods.

"Catch," he says, throwing the knife back. She snatches it and wipes his blood on her palm before slipping it back into her belt. "So where do we start?"

"How about a conversation?" she proposes.

"I'm listening."

She scratches the back of her neck. "So… I'm not exactly a fan of the Hand."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think; any critiques, suggestions, or random thoughts are welcome.**


End file.
